


Damaged At Best

by fitslikeakey



Series: Missing Moments [1]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: 2015 Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 15:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14547681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitslikeakey/pseuds/fitslikeakey
Summary: He's on his sixteenth straight day at the bar when she shows up.ORA missing moment in 2015. Inspired by Scott's comments on Scotty Livingston's podcast.





	Damaged At Best

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fairwinds09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairwinds09/gifts), [justtotallyplatonic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justtotallyplatonic/gifts).



> Inspired by Scott's comments on the podcast. Also, I know this is not a Point it Home update, but that's coming soon, I swears. 
> 
> Also, justtotallyplatonic and fairwinds09, you guys rock . Writing Club, y'all.

He’s feeling comfortably drunk when he calls his shot.

Yes, the world is blurry around the edges, and yes, his hands shake as he tosses the ball into the cup on the other side of the ping-pong table, but it lands in the drink anyway, and his competitors swear good-naturedly as they down the alcohol. “Shouldn’t mess with this guy,” his teammate responds, throwing an arm around him. He has a name Scott can’t seem to come up with, but they’re on an eight-day winning streak at the bar, and what does it matter when he’s never going to see him in the light of day anyway?  “I mean really,” the nameless partner adds. “He’s an Olympian, after all.”

“T-th-that’s right,” Scott says, and okay, fine, maybe he’s a little drunker than he thought he was. “So…so don’t mess with me.”

“Silver medal, though,” one of the opponents respond, and Scott’s stomach turns. “Maybe we should call one of those Americans to join our side.”

“And on that note, I think I’ll get a stronger drink,” Scott says immediately, trying to pretend he doesn’t want to deck the guy. They chuckle, still more sober than Scott despite their loss.

“Come on buddy, I’m buying,” his partner says, and he’s grateful for the physical support, because he’s not sure he could make it all the way over to the bar on his own. Scott orders a vodka soda, hold the soda, and when his drink arrives, the nameless partner is nowhere to be found to pay the bill. Scott slides over the last few singles he stuck in his pocket to save him from carrying a wallet, and downs half the vodka in one gulp. There are hockey highlights on the TV in the corner as he sits, and the recap of the Leafs’ game makes him want to order another drink. By the time his partner returns, apparently from a quite extended bathroom break, Scott’s down to a couple leftover sips at the bottom of his glass.

“Scott, there you are,” he hears vaguely as he tries and fails to focus his eyesight. There’s a dark-haired woman just inside the door, shaking a floral umbrella and wrapping a long designer coat more tightly around herself, her arms tightly wrapped around her body, like she’s uncomfortable.

He speaks slowly. “Hey,” he comments absently, pointing at the woman, “You look just like this girl that I used to skate with.”

The woman answers patiently and pointedly. “Scott.” She walks closer to his seat at the bar, and well, _shit_ , it is Tessa.

“Good god, dude, I didn’t know that Olympians could get girls delivered for them. Can I get me a slice of that?”

“Fuck off, Sammy,” Scott says absently, still staring at Tessa, and wow, he knew his name all along. Sammy takes one look at the passive-aggressive stare Tessa has fixed upon her face, and scurries back to the beer pong table. “What are you doing here, Tessa? You’re supposed to be modeling by day, saving the world by night in Toronto.”

Tessa giggles, and Scott can tell immediately that she doesn’t mean to. “I have tomorrow off,” she answers shortly as she readjusts her carefully crafted expression. “And your mom called me.”

He speaks as though his mouth his full of marbles. “Well that’s weird,” he says, as flatly as he can under the circumstances. “Why would my mom call my old skating partner? God knows she doesn’t have any free time.”

“Because she’s worried about you,” Tessa responds, her voice clipped, her tone careful, “and no one else could get to you. And we have a show in Newfoundland in three weeks, Scott, I’m not your old anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he grumbles, and he tries to flag down the bartender again, but Tessa’s got a hand holding his to the rail in a flash.

“Scott,” she says again, her voice low. “It’s time for you to go now. You’ve had more than enough to drink for a while.” Her face is a few centimeters away from his, and he knows she can smell the alcohol on his breath, just like he can smell the perfume she bought that masks his favorite smell in the world, the perfume she never wore at the rink in Michigan, the perfume that’s slowly been making him lose his mind, as if Maneater performances weren’t bad enough.

He bites back at her. “Shouldn’t you been the one leaving? Seems like you’ve gotten pretty good at it, you’re in Toronto designing jewelry, you’re in LA modeling, you’re in Halifax, you’ve got this leaving London thing down.” She keeps leaving something else, too, but in his inebriation Scott can’t for the life of him remember what it is.

“Scott.” She squeezes his hand, and the warmth that the alcohol sent all over his body grows hot too quickly. She looks over at the bartender. “Does he have a tab?”

He shrugs. “We don’t even charge him. He just refuses not to pay. He drinks whatever he wants.” Tessa nods, looking a little alarmed, and tugs on his hand.

“Scott, let’s go home and go to bed,” she says, her tone a little too forceful, and he knows that’s a little bit of fear in her voice, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“I don’t get to go home, Tess,” he says, shaking finger on his free hand at her. “I used to have a home, and you took that away from me.” He’s unfiltered and unhinged, and he’s far gone enough that he can ignore the red tinging Tessa’s cheeks. “Just leave me alone.”

“No,” Tessa says, louder. “I’m not leaving without you.”

“Why not?” He challenges. “My brothers did. My friends did. Shit, even my girlfriend did. And you’re somehow different.”

She shifts her stance uncomfortably, but her eyes are shooting daggers at him, and her hands come to rest at her hips. “Yes, I am.”

He leans towards her, and she takes a step back, her nose wrinkling at the scent of his breath. “Exactly what in the hell do you think you’re going to do to fix this that they couldn’t do?”

“Easy,” she says, straightening her shoulders and moving to a more deliberate stance. “One more chance to get up and go.”

“No,” he says stubbornly, drunkenly. “You’re not my boss. Not anymore.”

“Fine,” she retorts, taking a couple steps backward. “Let me take you home, Scott.” She pauses. “Or I’m never going to skate with you again.”

……Well, _fuck_.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up in an only moderately familiar room, a cream-colored bedspread twisted around his legs and all of his clothing from the night before still on, save a belt. There’s a glass of water and two Advil waiting for him on the side table, and it’s the sight of the little blue pills that alert him to the throbbing in his head and the aching in his joints. At the end of the bed, there’s a clean pair of shorts and a t-shirt, both of which Scott knows he owns but neither of which he’s seen in the past couple of years.

He takes the pills and changes into the clothes laid out for him, and when he makes his way out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen, he’s greeted by the distinct smell of burning. Tessa is in the kitchen, hair thrown into a bun and a whole matching Adidas set on her body, frantically trying to stop the smoke from rising off the pan on her stove. “Kiddo,” he says, sounding scratchy and sick, “what are you doing?”

“I was trying to make you breakfast,” she pouts down at her pan, and he’s seen that face so many times before that he has to laugh.

When she points her pout at him, he exhales, accepting his fate. “Do you have flour?”

Thirty minutes later, they’re finishing their first plates of chocolate chip pancakes, and Scott’s headache has started to disappear, the memories of the night coming back like falling bricks. “So,” he starts. “Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”

“That’s my line,” she protests. She turns in her chair so she’s facing him and sighs. “Scott…”

“I know.” He looks down at his empty plate, pulling a few more pancakes from the serving tray he’d set on Tessa’s glass kitchen table. “Believe me, I know.”

She sets a hand on his shoulder, and he’s struck by conflicting instincts to tense up and to relax, so he ends up just twitching. “I knew you’d been having a hard time lately, but I had no idea it was this bad. You acted like you were just enjoying yourself every time we talked.”

“You’ve been busy, it’s not your fault,” he mutters.

“Are you mad at me for being gone a lot? I’ve been trying to check in, but sometimes I…”

“No, _no_ ,” he protests, because she’s still Tessa and he’s still Scott and he’s absolute garbage at being mad at her for more than five minutes. “You’re doing great, T. I’m proud of you. I wish I was so sure of what the hell I was doing.” He scoots his chair closer to hers, wraps an arm around her waist, and pulls her to him, the most natural move in the world.

“You weren’t acting like that last night.”

“I was drunk.”

“Yes, you were,” she says with authority, and he cringes away a little. “You were drunk last night, like you apparently were the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that. Do you know how worried your family is? Do you know how worried Kaitlyn is?” At the mention of his girlfriend’s name, Scott’s hand shifts from its spot low on Tessa’s waist.

“I’ve seen you drunk before, Scott. I’ve never seen you like you were last night. I was scared, Scott. I’ve never seen you so angry, especially not drunk.” Her eyes are shining, and when he notices, he wraps his other arm around her and pulls her into him.

“I scared you,” He says sadly. “I’m so sorry, kiddo.” He presses a kiss into her hair. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

“Why are you doing this? This isn’t you, the constant drinking, not taking care of yourself.”

“I just…” He stops, breathing her in. She’s freshly showered, and her natural scent is all over the room, intoxicating him, invigorating him. “I just don’t know what I’m doing anymore. The retirement…I feel like I’m trying to tread water and I’m just drowning.” He tries to smile at her. “And I’m so proud of you, Tess, but I guess I just wish you still needed me a little more.”

“I do need you,” she insists. “The practices, the shows, they’re the only thing that feels normal to me right now. And you’re still my best friend, even if we only see each other once a week instead of eighty times a week.” She scratches at his hair affectionately.

She’s basically in his lap at this point already and he finishes the job, pulling her calves over her chair and settling her on his legs, his arms all the way around her front. “This whole retirement, Tess…”

She puts a finger up to his lips. “Now’s probably not the right time to start that discussion.” He nods, and then they both sigh.

“No more, Scott,” she says quietly, resting her forehead against his. “You can’t do that anymore. If something happened to you, do you have any idea what it would do to your mom? To your nieces and nephews, to Kaitlyn?” She lets out a choked sob. “Do you have any idea how that would destroy me?”

His heart feels strangled as he slides a hand into her messy hair, kissing her on both cheeks and her forehead. “I’m so sorry, Tessa,” he says, his own eyes growing watery. “No more, I promise.”

She’s still upset. “You can’t- I mean you don’t even know how much that would…” She buries her head in his chest and he rubs her back soothingly, murmuring things into her ear that come out of him without thought.

“No more,” he says, and that’s that.

There’s a lot they don’t talk about as they sit there in Tessa’s kitchen, as little physical space between them as possible, but what feels like a mountain of baggage separating them emotionally. They don’t talk about Tessa rushing out on a massive opportunity with an international magazine to rescue him, just like they don’t talk about the fact that she’s the one who knows his breaking point, the one who _is_ his breaking point.

Actually, it will be a long time before they talk about that night again, a time when things seem wonderful again and Scott doesn’t even think about hiding himself in his drinking, a time when he can hold her hand and kiss her cheeks whenever he wants, not just when things seem to be at their worst. They’ll talk about it one day, a shiny ring on one of her hands and plans for the future securely in their minds, and they’ll still feel an ache deep down inside. He’ll still be drinking, but this time it will mostly be to toast their victories and celebrate each other, and when she comes home to him, she’ll be coming home to him already warm in their bed. They’ll remind each other of the promises they’ve made to each other.

And he’ll never look back.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: fitslikeakey  
> Twitter: fitslikeakey  
> Come yell at me.


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